


(not quite a) getaway cabin

by dramatispersonae



Category: RWBY
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, IronQrow Week, M/M, technically a riff on the 'huddle for warmth' trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:43:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatispersonae/pseuds/dramatispersonae
Summary: nobody died, so qrow's marking this one down as a solid 'could be worse'.





	(not quite a) getaway cabin

**Author's Note:**

> fill for day 3, 'high maintenance.' many thanks to @aromantic-eight for her extensive help editing, and to @patrexes for giving it a look over for egregious wrongs. all remaining mistakes are mine.

"I am never," Qrow says, venting his anxiety by building a perfect little tent-shaped pile of twigs around the tinder in the fireplace, "helping anyone with anything ever again."

"You're helping right now," James points out, which is _not_ helpful. Qrow debates arranging some of the larger sticks that he's not using yet into a tasteful, rustic depiction of a fist with the middle finger raised, but decides it's too much effort and just flips James off with one of his own hands. James is digging in the supply closet, so he probably doesn't see it, but it's the thought that counts.

The twig pile collapses.

For fuck's sake.

Qrow starts over while a particularly forceful gust of wind rattles the timbers of the cabin. At least a roving Grimm pack hadn't found this place before they did. He can't feel his face. Or his feet, or his nuts, or really any other part of his body, which may be a net gain considering he didn't get out of the fight unscathed, but is still overall not a great sign.

Welcome to Solitas! Hope you like temperatures no human being can safely withstand. We built a kingdom here because we suck.

The new twig pile holds, so Qrow starts layering sticks over it. He's been making fires for ages, and there's only so many ways that can go wrong, so this is his job right now. After that's done comes the more complicated part: the field medicine part. Qrow hates that part. Much simpler to let Aura take care of everything. But they're both low after the battle, and not doing anything is not an option. Not with James' right leg dragging and Qrow's back a currently unknown degree of hamburgered.

"At least we've established that this wouldn't have been a good time for a school field trip," Qrow says. James doesn't say anything.

By the time the tent of firewood is built up enough that Qrow's ready to light it, his hands have gone fully numb past the wrists and his fingers are almost immobile. He breaks the first three matches, wears down another two without getting them to light, and almost fumbles the sixth match after lighting it before finally, mercifully, setting it against the tinder and getting it to catch. James, meanwhile, has pulled what looks to be all of the blankets out of the closet and is wearing half of them. He's sitting on the solitary threadbare rug beside a first-aid kit that's more of a first-aid treasure chest.

He also has his pants off and blankets over his detached left leg. His right leg is exposed, bent at the knee at an awkward angle. That's probably the best James can manage with the way the metal has buckled there. There's a large heat pack draped over his right hip and the top of his thigh.

"Come here," James says. "I need to see how bad it is."

"Aren't you gonna get that off first?" Qrow says. Damage aside, the leg is a liability. Atlas-made prosthetics are pretty well insulated, he knows, but they're also heat sinks. And they definitely weren't made with this kind of situation in mind, because only idiots or people with _really_ bad luck (or... both) would get caught in a blizzard and _keep fighting Grimm_. He hasn’t taken his arm off, either, but Qrow can bug him about that after James has wrapped up his back. One-handed first aid is fucking _annoying_ , and this is gonna hurt enough as it is. Experience tells him his injuries are shallow (because he didn't leave a blood trail from the battle to the cabin), but that doesn't make them pleasant.

James grimaces. "It's stuck," he says. "I’m hoping the casing has just shrunk around the damage because it's cold, and I'll be able to remove it after we've been in here for a while." Qrow winces, remembering the way his leg had audibly _crunched_ under a big Ursa’s paw. Yeah, he can see that being a problem. The location of the heat pack makes sense now. "You can't distract me," James continues, interrupting Qrow's chain of thought. "Come here."

Qrow shuffles over reluctantly and faces James.

Field medicine is a necessity and he's no stranger to patching himself up. But it's weird and uncommon for someone else to be patching him up - when he's conscious, anyway. That hasn't happened with any regularity ever since STRQ went down two letters. That's not something Qrow likes thinking about even when he's in less vulnerable positions than 'cabin in the middle of Nowhere, Solitas and halfway to being a meatsicle'. So Qrow delays the inevitable and just sits there until James frowns and makes a 'get on with it' gesture. Then Qrow delays a little more by unfastening the heavy cloak that James lent him for this little expedition rather than immediately turning so James can access the claw marks on his back.

It's not technically stalling if the cloak’ll have to come off anyway, right? And it's a well-established fact that his fine motor movements aren't very fine and hardly qualify as movements right now, so if it takes a while to get all the buttons and ties loose, then that's hardly his fault.

James makes an impatient sound and starts undoing Qrow's cloak for him. Then he gives the collar of Qrow's shirt an exploratory tug.

The claw marks were relatively, mercifully quiet thanks to cold-induced numbness when Qrow was building the fire, but as soon as James starts peeling the remains of his shirt off of him they scream back to life and his back is nothing but _pain_. He clenches his jaw so hard something in it crunches louder than the ringing in his ears. 

"Qrow. Qrow!"

"I'm fine," Qrow says reflexively, which was the wrong thing to do. James gets a tragic look of equal parts sympathy and 'I'm going to beat up every person who ever made you think this situation was okay, possibly including you.'

"Turn around," James says. Qrow turns around. "I’ll try to be gentle."

"Just be fast," Qrow says, and grits his teeth.

He must've screamed a few times, because when Qrow gets back into his body enough that he can process things besides 'white-out agony', his throat feels raw. His torso is almost completely covered in wraps, and he's tucked against James' chest with blankets wrapped around the two of them. James' arm - the left one - is wrapped around Qrow, high enough that it doesn't put pressure on the claw wounds. Or their stitches. There are lots of stitches. The whole process hurt a lot worse than usual, so Qrow thinks that blood might have actually _frozen_ to his skin and shirt, which is a nauseating thought. It means his blood-puddle metric for assessing the severity of his injury was off.

Also that the shirt's unsalvageable. What a shame.

"Well," Qrow croaks, "at least your plan worked."

James is quiet for a while. Qrow can feel him breathing. Steady. Even.

"I'm sorry," James says. "About my plan. It wasn't right to put you at risk like that."

Qrow chuckles, or, he tries to. It catches wrong in his throat and makes him cough, and that pulls on the stitches, and he clenches his fists and his teeth and shoves the pained noise he almost makes back down to where it came from. His liver, probably. It has pained noises to spare. "I'm always at risk like that," he says, once he can open his mouth without a sad little whimper falling out. "Kinda the _lynchpin_ of your plan, Jimmy."

The plan being that James wasn't sure if it was the acceptable, expected kind of unsafe to take students at Atlas Academy out to this area of Solitas the way he usually did this time in the semester — the weather had been unpredictable, Grimm behavior erratic —, so he and Qrow would scout the area together. Qrow's Semblance meant that James would have a better idea of what the worst-case scenario might look like, and could choose to take the students out or not accordingly.

And it worked, so Qrow didn't get what the problem was. James had his answer. Worst-case scenario looked like a pack of very old Ursa and a snowstorm that reduced visibility and slowed movements to the point that a couple of pro huntsmen got jumped instead of the other way around. Not great news for the students hoping to be out in the field soon, but hey, at least there were a dozen less Grimm haunting the ice.

"It was irresponsible of me," James continued, like Qrow hadn't spoken. Rude. "It's one thing to account for the possibility that your Semblance could cause problems, and another thing entirely to take _advantage_ of that and purposefully put you in danger."

"Not really," Qrow says. "Seems smart to me. One of my best uses." James is very warm. Between his body heat, the blankets, and the fire, Qrow is regaining sensation all over. Including in his fingers! Granted, it’s mostly the third-worst case of pins and needles he's ever had, but he's choosing to look on the bright side.

James sighs. "I’m not even going to comment. My apology stands, whether you want it or not."

"Fuck you," Qrow says, because he feels muzzy and not up to keeping up with the specifics of James' words, but he recognizes the tone. That's the self-flagellating martyr tone. That's the 'I'm responsible for every evil that occurs when there's even the slimmest chance that I could possibly maybe have prevented it' tone. It’s Oz’s favorite, and it doesn’t suit James at all. "I'm having a great time. People pay to go on getaways to cabins in the mountains. I'm getting it for the low, low price of 'could have died.'"

James chokes.

Qrow snakes an arm around James and pats his back. Qrow's stitches don't like that, but Qrow's stitches can shut up. Thankfully, this doesn’t seem to be the start of a longer episode of breathing problems. It would be just their luck (hah) to finally reach safety and get as patched up as currently possible only for James to swallow his own tongue and die.

James shakes his head. "I never know what you're going to say," he says ruefully.

"Something stupid, usually," Qrow replies. James tugs him closer. Still with the left arm. Finally took the other one off, huh? About time, Qrow thinks with blurry satisfaction.

"Fair," James says, and now Qrow is close enough that he can feel James' voice where his cheek presses to James' chest, and that's really nice. Less nice is the rising itch on the back of his neck.

"Hey," Qrow says, as a thought occurs to him. "What kind of blankets are these?"

* * *

Qrow hasn't seen a blanket pile exude so much sadness since Yang collapsed a pillow fort on Ruby. "See, at least it's even," he tells James, scratching at what's rapidly shaping up to be an impressive collection of red welts. "You have the metal parts and the blankets, I have no metal parts and no blankets."

James does not stop exuding sadness from the blanket pile. Or guilt. There's definitely guilt in the mix too.

"And now you know to stock more than just wool blankets in your hideaway cabins," Qrow adds. He's leaning up against a wall, because the stitches on his back demand straight posture and the only straight things Qrow can manage are alcoholic. James is still sitting in the middle of the room, right leg tenting a blanket pile, right arm and left leg laid beside it to soak in the heat of the fire. The metal glimmers in the light. Take away the blanket piles and he'd look like an advertisement for Atlesian prosthetics, or hair gel, or maybe just stupidly handsome world-weary men.

For this to be advertisement-worthy there also shouldn't be smudges of blood on James' right hand. Apparently the first aid treasure chest lacked the appropriate cleaning materials for removing blood from metal prostheses… or, Qrow thinks, looking at the overstuffed biohazard bags in the corner of the cabin, maybe James just hadn't wanted to waste cleaning supplies on a hand he wasn't wearing when Qrow's back had needed so much clean-up.

"I should have thought of that before," James says, quietly.

"Well, now you have, and it's fine. We have a fire. I'm warm." That's not entirely true. Qrow has reclaimed his borrowed cloak, as it isn't made of wool, and a few heat packs, but he's still shirtless, and the cabin is still coldish. The fire is helping. The temperature of the outdoors for miles around is not. And he can't lay on James, the best heat pack, when James has the blankets on him, and Qrow will not let James take the blankets off. No point in both of them going blanketless just because Qrow's got an unlucky allergy.

Usually Qrow loves how overburdened with emotion James is — it makes him very easy to rile up, in all kinds of ways, and it's funny as hell that a man so committed to maintaining an image of relentless efficiency has such a squishy interior — but right now it's kind of obnoxious. James is more upset about the situation than Qrow is. And he's supposed to be upset on Qrow's behalf, so that seems a little lopsided.

If self-blame was a finite resource, James and Oz would eat through the entire world's supply in about a year.

"It's an obvious flaw. One I intend to rectify as soon as we get back to Atlas." James glares at his scroll, like he can get it to spontaneously develop a signal through willpower alone. Qrow doesn't know much about the towers other than 'make the scrolls go ding, usually reliable except when it's really important,' so who knows? Maybe it’ll help. "This is a safety issue. If students had to take shelter in this cabin and couldn't use the blankets..."

Oh, so it's like that. "You do plenty to make your murder school safe. Stop moping." Qrow scratches his shoulder. His stitches tug warningly. At this rate he might end up popping one of them out, but he's _itchy_. Besides, between his Semblance and his usual inability to hold still, it's not like he's a stranger to having stitches redone two or four times. "Anyway, isn’t blanket-stocking a little beneath the head of Atlas? Don't you have flunkies for that?”

“Not the head of Atlas, not a dictator,” James corrects absently, but doesn’t say anything else.

"Oh, right, you don't control everything yet. So other people fucking up is your fault how?"

"They’re _my_ people," James says stonily. Qrow snorts.

Maybe a change of subject will improve the mood. "Your leg warm enough to come off yet?" he asks.

James makes a face like he's concentrating, and the mass of blankets shifts slightly, then stops. He sighs. "It should be, but it won't. I’ll need to see my prosthetist."

Yeah, like that wasn't already warranted. James may have spared himself the tender mercies of Qrow's shitty medical skills by using his metal limbs to protect his fleshy bits, but there's a cost to everything.

James shuffles on the floor so he's facing Qrow and his right leg isn't facing the fire, adjusting the heat packs and visibly making himself comfortable. Qrow cocks his head, watching James, waiting to see if he's going to start talking or otherwise indicate that he wants something. But James just… looks at him.

Weird. Qrow hopes he's not expecting some kind of frozen-isolation-induced heart-to-heart. It's too cold to have feelings.

"You got games on your scroll?" Qrow asks instead.

If he had to, Qrow would describe the look on James' face as 'quiet acceptance of the situation, most often felt by men facing death.' "What kind of games," James says.

Mostly single player games, it turns out - puzzles and shit. But he does have a few of the same multiplayer fighting games Qrow does, which raises the question of who James usually plays with. Qrow tries to imagine video game night in Atlas military headquarters and comes up blank. But that's a question for another time, because right now Qrow's best options for pain management are bourbon and distractions, and he'd like to apply both liberally.

(Presumably, there are pain medications in the first aid chest of wonders, but they're nothing that Qrow wants to mix with the bourbon.)

"I can't believe you use the block button," Qrow says, as his fighter beats James' fighter into the pixelated concrete.

"You're just hitting the punch button repeatedly! There's no _strategy_."

"My strategy is kicking your butt. And it's working just fine." James' fighter expires. Qrow's has a three-quarters full health bar. "Rematch?"

"Sure."

James doesn't win the next game. Or the next. He tries to follow Qrow's example of 'hit the punch button until the other guy dies,' but he clearly lack Qrow's years of button-mashing experience and can't keep up. He does land more hits, though, so good on him.

"Does having your leg stuck hurt?" Qrow asks, taking one hand off his scroll to scratch his shoulder. While his hand is in the neighborhood, he takes the opportunity to take his flask out from the inside pocket of his cloak and get a drink. James had retrieved the flask at some point in the process of dressing Qrow's injuries, which saved Qrow the trouble of having to dig through bags of gore-soaked bandages to get it out of his shirt pocket. Qrow, for his part, had tucked the flask into his cloak so the metal could get slightly less fucking icy. 

The contents are fine, of course. Good old low freezing point of alcohol. It always comes through for him. He continues beating up on James' fighter one-handed. 

"Why do you ask?" James asks, trying to take advantage of the situation by flipping over Qrow's fighter's head and attacking from behind, like an asshole. Qrow bites onto the lip of the flask and returns his now-free hand to the game, turning and punching James' fighter with a charged-up attack. "Seriously?"

"Mnh," Qrow answers around the flask, tilting his head back to take another drink. The metal is cold on his teeth, but damn if he's letting his guard down again. In a few more punches, James' fighter dies a technicolor death and Qrow removes the flask. "Asking 'cause I want to know if I should feel good about these victories, or if you're impaired."

James looks pointedly at the flask. "Being impaired clearly means nothing about your chance of victory in this game. And no, the port doesn't hurt."

"See, that’s not actually what I asked," Qrow says. He offers James one of his selection of threatening grins. This one says 'don't try to pull tricky word game bullshit on me,' and mostly gets used on Oz.

"The way I had to walk to get here hurt my back and the surrounding muscles," James says reluctantly. "But it's nothing to worry about."

Ah. Figures. Turns out knees are more useful when they can bend right. On their way to the cabin Qrow had needed to forge ahead and stomp a path into the falling snow to keep James from getting stuck or overbalancing. That had been fun, James shouting directions over the screeching wind and Qrow trying to figure why the fuck anyone ever chose to live in Solitas. Masochism? Deep-seated empathic resonance with ice sculptures?

"You take meds?" Qrow asks. James shakes his head. Unfortunately, that's the more reasonable choice - all the pain meds Qrow knows of that aren't contraindicated for the rest of the shit James is on interfere with Aura in some way. Interfering with Aura while in the field is a good way to get dead.

Still. Pain sucks. Qrow gestures at James with the flask. "You want some?"

"I thought the concern was me being too impaired for your victories to mean something," James says. But he accepts the flask and immediately takes a drink, much to Qrow's surprised delight. This isn't going to go well.

James sputters.

Qrow cackles. "Forget you prefer baby drinks, Jimmy?"

James tries to say something undoubtedly scathing and witty but ends up choking on the words. Qrow grabs the flask out of his hand before he can spill it — who knows when he’ll get a refill. 

" _Don't_ start," James says, finally.

Qrow shrugs, to emphasize his kindness and magnanimity and whatnot, and puts the flask away. James' playing doesn't get any better, but he does seem to unwind a little.

Qrow, meanwhile, can feel his mind unspooling, thoughts coming slower. It's easier to push away the thoughts he doesn't want to be dealing with right now, thoughts to do with his long history of injuries and who was or wasn't there to help him with them. He's playing a video game with James, and they're alive, and they're safe for now, and it's good. James is good and being with James is good. 

The margin he's beating James by is shrinking, game by game.

Weird.

He's still winning, but it's getting a little harder to keep track of what he's doing. He gets distracted by itching or blanks on what move he meant to do. James is still pulling his flippy position-changing bullshit, utilizing ranged attacks to take advantage of the time it takes Qrow to remember turn his fighter. Qrow squints at his scroll and frowns. Fucking Jimmy.

"Got you!" James announces, and Qrow's fighter explodes. "I told you knowing the combos was valuable." James looks up from his scroll. Apparently the sight is concerning, because he frowns. "Are you alright?"

Qrow gives a wobbly thumbs up.

"I will take that as a no," James says. "Qrow, you remembered you've recently experienced a fair amount of blood loss, right?"

Oh.

Hm.

"Nope," Qrow says. That explains some things. He's usually much better at estimating how much he can drink for whatever he's doing. But he usually has a different amount of blood in his body. "Hey, let's cuddle."

"Blankets," James says. It takes Qrow a minute to remember.

"If I'm itchy, I'm itchy," Qrow says, and stands up, heat packs sliding off his body with wet thumps. The cabin floor tries to run away from him, but Qrow braces his elbows against the wall and stays relatively steady. James does not look impressed by this demonstration of athletic skill. James is a stodgy bastard.

"If you insist on coming over here, I'm going to take the blankets off," James says.

Qrow hesitates. Is it warm enough in the cabin for that to be okay? Yeah, at this point, probably. James has a cloak. Qrow has a cloak. There's a fire. Qrow has body heat. James has body heat. That's plenty. "That’s fair."

"Okay," James says. He shrugs the blankets off.

He's still not wearing pants. There is also a lot of what is unmistakably dried blood all over the front of his uniform.

"Hey, whoa, what the fuck," Qrow says. "Where did that come from?" If James has been secretly bleeding through his nicely-pressed shirt and jacket the whole time, Qrow is going to kill him.

James looks down at the blood on his torso, like he forgot it was there. "Qrow," he says. "This is yours."

"Oh," Qrow says, considering. "That's fine then."

He lurches away from the wall, and then he's sitting in James' lap. How those events connect is a little hazy and blurred together, but it's not like that's important. The important thing is that James is warm, and Qrow is a tactile person by nature even though the vast majority of his life has not been very accommodating of that. He's not sure where James' preferences lie, frequency-of-touch-wise, because James often holds himself at a distance with his people, but that's like… an authority thing. And a self-consciousness thing, probably. It's not like either of them are all that great at sitting down and having long, emotionally honest talks about their pasts and the myriad ways they got fucked over, but Qrow knows enough from what James has said and extrapolations based on his own experiences to know that there's some damage there. Birds (heh) of a feather and all. But James certainly doesn't object to being climbed on by Qrow.

"Hm," James says. He places his hand on Qrow's forehead. Qrow butts against it like a cat. "You feel a little warm."

"The better to heat you with," Qrow mutters. One of his ass bones is poking into James' groin, which can't be comfortable for either of them. He tries to shift

"Very funny," James says, adjusting Qrow's position effortlessly. Stupid robot strength. Or… wait, no, James still has his right arm off. Stupid… military… strength. "I want you to get checked out by a real medic when we get back to Atlas."

"Too soon for symptoms of infection to set in," Qrow mutters, with exactly the same inflection as his previous assertion.

"Qrow."

"Yeah, okay, I'll do it," Qrow says, turning so his face is pressed more against James' chest, "but I won't like it." There's dried blood against his cheek, but it's blood that used to be in Qrow, so it's sanitary. That's how that works, right?

"That's all I ask." James begins to stroke Qrow's hair. Unfair. James knows that's one of the fastest ways to get Qrow to relax and, if the circumstances are right, fall asleep. The circumstances are definitely right. Not that daylight has much consistent meaning in Solitas, as far north as it is, but the sun's been down for a good while now and it's been a long day. There's something a little unfair about falling asleep without so much as setting up a watch schedule, since they can't both be asleep in the middle of nowhere. But it also feels really, really nice to be touched like this, and James knows the risks of petting Qrow's head, so Qrow can't find it in himself to object. The burn of the stitches fades under the buzz from the alcohol and the gooey languor of being held.

Qrow dozes.

When he wakes up, it's to James' General Voice. There's another voice coming in over James' scroll, unrecognizable because of the static in the connection and also because Qrow can't really identify many of James' people when they're using their 'talking to The General' voices. Swearing and cursing Qrow's name? That's more familiar. But that he can hear them at all means the storm's lifted enough for signals to come through and therefor for an airship to come get them. Go team.

His mouth feels sticky, so he takes a drink from his flask reflexively and remembers the whole blood loss thing almost immediately after swallowing. That's going to be fun for whoever gets stuck checking his injuries on the airship.

James signs off the call. "Did you catch that?" he says. Qrow nods. Rescue means a real bed. Or even a floor in a heated room. James has many positive qualities, not that Qrow would ever tell him that, but 'comfortable place to sleep sitting up' is not one of them. Qrow's back hurts. It's only mostly because of the claw wounds.

"That mean we should get up?" he asks. Considering their current state, getting upright could take more time than it will take the airship to reach them.

James grimaces. "Probably." He reaches around Qrow to retrieve his right arm and reconnect it. The mild hum of James' chest intensifies briefly as it re-establishes communication with the limb.

Qrow realizes that he's in the way of the port for James' left leg.

So Qrow hauls himself up, using James' shoulders for leverage. His arms shake and the floor bucks, but he gets vertical and counts that as a victory until he feels a stinging warmth spreading on his back. Hm. That's not great. Good thing there's an airship coming. He extends a hand to James, who takes a deep breath and grabs on.

Getting James on his feet is a complicated process that involves James getting his left leg underneath himself by using Qrow to balance, which requires Qrow to brace himself and try not to fall over. Then James pushes himself up and gets his right leg vaguely lined up under his hip with a quick motion that almost yanks Qrow straight down to the floor. Years of huntsman training and experience is all that saves him from acquainting his face with the rug.

They lean on each other while they wait for the airship to arrive, Qrow's shoulder shoved under James' left armpit. Something nags at the back of Qrow's mind, but he doesn't know quite what until he looks down and sees James's sensible gray boxers.

"Uh," Qrow says. "Pants."

James looks down. "Oh, hell."

The pants are crumpled on the floor. Getting them back onto James is definitely going to be a two-person task, and it definitely has to happen, because as funny as it would be for James to go out to meet his people pantsless, it is way too fucking cold for that. Bad enough Qrow has no shirt any more. So Qrow and James awkwardly maneuver their way over to the wall, then James leans on it while Qrow gets the pants. He has to kneel and sort of wiggle-scrunch them up over James' right foot, but once that's done it's fairly simple for Qrow to push them up to James' knees and for James to pull them the rest of the way up.

Now Qrow just has to stand back up.

Just stand… back up.

Yep.

Any day now.

Hm.

Eventually James takes pity on him and hauls Qrow upright, but not before some stiff Atlesian military types open the door to the cabin to see Qrow on his knees in front of James, who still hasn't entirely done up his pants. James does, however, pull Qrow up just in time for Qrow to sneeze and bang his face on James' metal pec, also witnessed by said stiff Atlesian military types.

Not the best mission outcome, all things considered.

But definitely not the worst.

Even though Qrow's injuries do end up getting infected and he does curse out at least half a dozen highly esteemed Atlas medical personnel in a fever-hazed ramble.


End file.
